A Story of Economic Terrorism

The reader should be warned that extremely frank language in conceptual situations is contained in this novel and any language that the reader may deem to be offensive should be in no way construed as the author's actual beliefs. The author in no way bears any responsibility for those that continue to read this book and find themselves to be offended.

Charleston, North Carolina

Thursday, December, 28^th

0745hrs

He is feeling as if he has been waiting in line for hours, the new airport security measures had created a clusterfuck and he has better things to do. Scott Holland doesn't look like anyone special; standing among the clash of humanity, all races, nearly all nationalities seemed as if they had converged on this spot at this moment in time.

The security screening procedures for all flights, especially international, had been heightened due to the upcoming New Years celebrations. Although racial or ethnic profiling had been technically outlawed, the screeners still made sure that they looked closer at people of Middle Eastern descent than at any others.

Scott is no different than the screeners, but he is specifically focusing on two women in traditional bhurkas. He looks around scanning the throng that was getting a little thinner as time wore on. He glances down at his watch and than back toward the women; they had gotten passed the screeners.

Quickly and without hesitation he draws a Sig Sauer .45 caliber handgun from his shoulder holster and fires one time into the air.

"Federal Agent, everybody down!" he yells at the suddenly stunned crowd.

The women in the bhurkas freeze for a second and then move toward the gate as if they had not heard the shot or the order.

Another shot from Holland's Sig Sauer, assaults the ears around him. "Federal agent, get down...now!"

The bhurka clad women stop and turn around slowly.

"Get on the floor," Holland yells again. Then repeats himself again in Farsi.

Black attired figures come storming into the area MP3 submachine guns pointing in every direction, laser eyes pinpointing on the bodies on the floor and in the direction of the women.

In a synchronous motion the women reach in front of them and pull the bhurka's apart, the sound of Velcro rasping through the silence. Blocks of clay like substance are strapped around their bodies and wires are running up their shoulders and into the bulky sleeves.

In unison they cry, "Allah Akbar!"

Two quick successive shots roar, red splotches form on both women's forehead and they fall back.

"Ow! Goddamn it Scott, that hurt!" one of the women staggers to her feet. "Did you have to shoot me in the head?"

Scott walks over to the woman and wryly surveys his handiwork, "Sorry Keri, old habits."

One of the men in black pulls off his mask and intones, "All right folks exercise is over, and I want section leaders' reports on my desk by 1500hrs."

Holland walks up to the screeners table. "All right which one of you was responsible for letting those two through without further questioning?" Of the three sitting at the table, a young crew-cut headed man looks at Holland sheepishly.

"I guess that would have been me sir."

"You guess that would've been you, huh? Well perhaps you would like to explain your reasoning to the 253 passengers and 15 crew personnel that would have lost their lives as to why you didn't screen them closer?"

"Not particularly sir."

Holland leans in closer, eyes flaring, "fine, explain it to me."

The man swallows hard, "they were women sir, and I didn't think that they were a threat."

"Did you even talk to them?"

"Well... yes sir, I asked them the standard questions, and everything seemed to check out."

"And where did they say their husbands were?"

"I'm sorry sir?"

Holland leans in a little closer, as if to make him self heard clearer, "I said, where did they say their husbands were?"

The man leans back trying to avoid the closeness of Holland and looks at him quizzically, "I...uhm... I didn't...uh....ask them...sir." Then he says a little defiantly, "I guess I don't understand what their husbands had to do with anything."

Holland backs off the man, "I see, and tell me..." Holland reads the man's name tag, "Mr. Bolton, did you sit through the classes on Arabic law, most specifically the laws concerning Sha'ria?"

Bolton nods.

"And tell me Mr. Bolton, what does Sha'ria law have to say about women in public?"

Bolton licks his lips nervously, "Ah...it...says that ah...women can't travel without a male family member or her husband with them."

"Very good Mr. Bolton, so now I ask you again to tell me why you didn't ask them where their husbands were."

"Well sir, this is America, and we don't acknowledge the laws of Sha'ria."

Holland steps back from the table and turns around, "I want everyone to listen to me and listen good. Sha'ria law is not about a country, but about a religion, and the practitioners do not care what country they are in. Because America has constitutionally protected freedom of religion, we allow the people who fall under Sha'ria law to do pretty much as they please. These two women who were clad in bhurkas did so because their law required it, and their law also required them to have a male family member present at all times. They were suspicious from the very second they walked into the room." He pauses for a moment to let it all settle in, and then, "it is our unwillingness to inquire into sensitive areas that continue to make us unsecured."

Holland glances back at Bolton, giving him a hard look, and then heads for the door.

Once out in the hall, Holland leans back against the wall and exhales heavily. Twenty years and countless accommodations, and he found himself relegated to being saddled with wet-behind-the-ears trainees. Under the heading of Homeland Security exists an agency that used to be a part of the National Security Agency; the Defense Intelligence Agency contains a shadowy network of spies and covert operations that most people would prefer not to know about. Holland had been one of the more prolific operatives in DIA, but since the White House deemed that the nation would probably not fall under any more serious terrorist acts, his services were no longer needed in that capacity. Not wanting to release a person of his capabilities on the world without supervision they tucked him away in less than choice training operations until they could figure out what they wanted to do with him.

Los Angeles, California

Thursday, December 28^th 2006

0445hrs

He sits in the middle of the room, stares at the blank wall in front of him, and contemplates the future. The plan is simple, if the execution is flawless, he will have struck a great blow; if the execution is flawed a great blow will still have been struck but he will not be able to bask in the quiet glow of a job well done. To rob a nation of a significant percentage of its people and its resources creates an untenable fear in all nations...in all people regardless of ethnicity, or nationality. To be successful here would make him a living god.

He pushes himself off the floor and wanders around the room seemingly distracted. Nearly everything was ready, just a few details to be cleared up and then he could pull the trigger on the plan. His distraction is not from lack of planning or commitment to the plan; this is a distraction of the flesh. In the next room lies a woman of questionable moral integrity, a woman that had no qualms about succumbing to his sexual advances the night before.

This woman... Natalie...Natasha... Nicole... something that started with an 'N' had approached him out of the blue while he was trying to have a quiet meal and a couple of drinks at a restaurant down the block from this apartment. Not wanting to draw attention to himself by seeming rude, he had listened to her inane driveling about her job, the high price of gas, and an endless cavalcade of pointless talking points, while sipping drinks. He had made sure that she had a continuous flow of alcohol intending the entire time to cause her to become quite drunk and then simply slip away, but luck had not been with him last night and she had remained relatively lucid.

He didn't know why he finally decided to take her back to his apartment, he was well aware last night that in these early hours that he was going to be leaving the city for good. He thinks to himself that maybe he will regain some of his faltering luck and she will simply wake up and leave. Better that he wasn't in the apartment when she did eventually wake up.

He walks over to a small writing table and in painstaking block letters drafts a note for her. Intentionally, he changes writing hands every couple of words and letters so that no two similar letters look as if they were written by the same person. In case she came back looking for him after he had gone a small amount of suspicion would be stymied by the lack of a credible handwriting analysis. He had taken great care to clean up after the clumsily performed mandatory sex act had been completed and the obligatory uncomfortable post-coital pleasantries had finally lead to her falling asleep snoring like a muted chainsaw. He had turned the used condom inside out over the toilet letting the contents slip into the blued water. Then with a pair of scissors, he had cut the condom into small pieces which were subsequently flushed into the LA sewer system. He knew that he was not in any of the law enforcement databases but it was always better to be safe. Hair was taken care of with a carefully designed wig that would lead authorities on a wild goose chase. It was crafted with the hair of over 30 different people so if police were to look for trace evidence, such as hair and fiber they would be tracking down dead-end leads for weeks on end. His body was devoid of hair, which he explained to his curious guest was a swimmers trick and that he competed in triathlons. His well defined muscle tone led credence to that statement but, truth-be-told, he had never even been in an ocean. That left his fingerprints, but since he had never been fingerprinted, at least not as an adult, there was little chance that he would be identified, though he reminded himself that he would have to wear gloves for the remainder of the operation.